Best Draperies Poems
Lingering (in foggy haze)
Silhouettes of lost souls
(basket people muttering)
Lingering
(as they always do)
Culture of poverty
holding up signs
will work for food
the barefoot children
HIV and hunger
the powerless mothers...
Lingering
Cult of personalities speak
(the politicians)
eager for answers we listen
to false hope.
Lingering
Embers dancing in the wind
and the Spanish Moss
that hangs from magnificent
oaks
begin to fall like funeral
draperies
that echo meaningless sighs...
Lingering...
~ ~ ~
Once
these corridors
echoed with life
a citadel for restoration
of body and mind
a bastion of promise
for the tormented
to the outside world
it had many names
Forest Lawn Sanitarium
was its Nome de plume
I--- simply called it--- home
In its day
it was of grand design
cathedral ceilings
hung with crystal chandeliers
finest draperies form fitted
to spacious Windows
walls brightly painted
absorbing sun lights warmth
reflected off marble floors
yes--- it was exquisite--- so beautiful
Soon after my arrival --- I realized
that beauty often commits--- the grossest treasons
For beneath
these hallowed halls
there lay a world of darkness
a wilderness of living sorrow
doctors most vile
It was here--- that I came of age.
a place
where the rooms
festered in the putrid scent
of decaying dust
where the floors
where like walking
on shattered
brittle-- shards of glass
the broken sills
of cemented widndows
entomb the fragments
of yesterdays tormented souls
if only
the towers
could reverberate
the echoing wails
which pierce the silence
so thick
not to chase away
no--- but to call
the slithering shadows of doom
a place where torture
became science--- and science
a medical break through
but to me--- it was still home
Where despair
screams of stone cold fear
of ghastly ghosts
imprisoned with clattering chains
of morbid madness
lurking in secret skeletons
where charcoal coffins
resurrect in the curtain
of lethal skies
bloodletting and chilling memories
Blasted shrapnel of
crimson smeared sins
of hollow skeletons
buried beneath
the godforsaken guillotine
where harrowing horrors
howl mournful cries
and demented demons
putrify on crosses
Persecuted in the bars
of their endless eternal torture
Hope you like my home--- cause
no one gets out alive
This is a collaboration which was written with the poetess Midnight petals on another poetry site. This piece was written about a year ago...
The Dressmaker
A woman with overflowing kindness, patience and vigor
All- in-one: a dressmaker, sewer and a tailor
Devoted herself unselfishly to her family and neighbors
Her endurance and sacrifices are up to the core
A woman of household light, a very good wife
Her divided attention and care was sometimes our knife
A great mother and granny denouncing our strife
You’re brothers and sisters-her kind words are rife
A woman who seemingly doesn’t know how to rest
On siesta hours, late at night…still stitching at her best
Sewing draperies, garments, repairing them the least
She’s a great dressmaker and mom who’ll not turn down a request.
Copyright2016Leonora Galinta
All Rights Reserved
April 5, 2016 4.10pm
Many years have passed on by since the 'happening' on that night.
Long before huge bigfoot feet were causing such a fright.
A humid eve and very warm, yet simply summer fare.
I'd left the draperies open to let in late cool night air.
My spouse was in the land of nod with me not far behind.
That feeling one gets just before sleep makes the mind go blind.
But something caused me waken and I did so with a start.
The lump I felt deep in my throat was the pounding of my heart.
For peering through my window and pressed up against the screen,
Was a face of neither man nor beast, but something in between.
And was I fully on my game; I think I might have fled,
But reflex over came my fear, as I lurched from out my bed.
And in that following instant, lacking reason, rhyme or grace;
I grabbed the draperies in my hands and slammed them in its face.
Next I raced from out the room and every light got lit.
Collapsed with heart still pounding to ignite my cigarette.
I used my freshly muddled mind to think about the sight.
This creature need be nine feet tall to peer inside that night.
I reasoned with myself the facts, contained within the scene
And then convinced my addled brain, it had to be a dream
No way could I describe him, nor for all the years to come.
But when I learned of bigfoot; I surmised it might be one.
I kept the 'happening' to myself, so not to scare my sons,
As summer slowly strolled on by with blaze of fall to come.
Then nearly two weeks later; I was awakened in the night,
As the screaming of my oldest son, was subjected to my fright.
A face peered in his window, even though his bunk was tall.
The creature was the one I’d seen, same face, great height and all.
My son is now a granddad with slight memory of that time;
The summer of the creature thing, when he was eight or nine.
With all those years behind me; I still wonder what took place?
In the open bedroom window, with that awful bigfoot face.
© 2015 Diane Lefebvre
I scorn thee, Puberty! Damn thee as well,
Thou abominable herder of shame,
Will thou findeth glee by my told sarspell?
I beseech thee of ineffable name,
Rendereth thineself as quiet slain game,
For thine cruel ends be reached, let thine eyes droop,
Immortal Rite, meeteth Poetry Soup.
Forsaken specs findeth young Phillip (me),
He the first noble son born of Sir Mike,
That betrothed Diane, mother of he (me);
Neareth NASA lived they by Houston’s dike,
We plus two girl offsprings I still dislike;
Turneth back time to nineteen ninety five,
Thus now the setting as ocean, we dive.
I of ten years then plus three more years aged,
By mine mom’s woven hand rags yet adorned,
Draperies bindething spirits encaged,
Mine lot too ignorant still ‘be forlorned,
For two years would pass ‘fore Nike I yearned;
Looken now friends, at thine narrator’s dress,
Mine costumes for school were each mismatched mess.
And hath we not yet speaketh mine afro?
Then let us for humor’s saketh too laughs
For atop mine snow pale flesh did it grow!
It was beneath that nest mine brain did graphs
On one Tuesday morn; during sixth grade math,
Unbeknownst of a sneaking wretched pest:
That ineffably named prepubescent guest.
Still in present times remember I can’t,
What the hell kindled mine loins ablaze,
Yet fiery flames of embarrassment
Secretly smoldered through my brainy haze;
When mine teacher upon me called that I raise,
And thus stirred the scene I’ve oft reflected,
The moment I’ve chosen for my most embarrassing?
When in 6th grade math class I stood up…
…fully erected
What would twice be without; the moon and the sun
The men and the women; that brought creation to the earth
The sun and the flowers; that will always blossoms to life
The clouds and the rains; pour draperies of life
The night and the day; will always fall on us for a new day
The full and the hunger; fed us most
The poor and the rich; builders up new mansion in front of them
The hopeless and the hopeful; for now
The ugly and the beautiful; bolded in this beauty and the beast
The ancient and the; modernism we all aging to it
The mother and the nature; to this greener pastures
The gold’s and the diamonds; will shine so pricelessly precious to us
The cold and the hot; in this weather
The failing and the passing; passes by for another yesterday
The pain and the happiness; they cry together
The matrimony and the divorce; vows lingering carelessly upheld not
The good and the evil; will drown us in hell
The guilty and the innocent; judged to all to this design of a beautiful life
..............................................................................................................
CHAPTER 2 THEME: TRANSITION POETRY is a deep in true substantial obscurity of science in fiction, dreams in spatiality to bring sense to the world about the world in poetic form. Reality steps that it’s spiritually capturing glimpses of life in the most aspheric Dadaism, surrealism in its impression of metaphysical poetry.
Amidst the radiant draperies of light
I halt encased in wonder
Of the jeweled splendor on my sight
My heart, irreverent thunder,
Though it but whispers from the nave
Of accordion columns
Rising to meet the eyes in still wave
Of wings where silence hums
Before the apse in majesty shining.
These mute,exalted stones
That vaults man's glory, set me pining
To see the golden space of thrones
Where I shall bow forever. Love spires
From marbled floor, cold
As a winter's day, at rose windows retires
Imprisoned, I grow old,
Without the polished graces of this place
This stony art of desire
That all languishing prayers waste
Beside a funeral pyre.
Whenever a Melancholy Moon,
Radiantly brimful, looms low,
And gilds the tops of the trees,
The hills, the flowing streams,
and languorously reclining lakes,
My Muse appears to me
from nowhere like a dream,
Like a flash of inspiration
to a muddled mind.
She glides towards me like
an elusive wreath of smoke
And gathers me in her
delicate arms like a silken robe,
Hovering around me
like the perfume of roses.
She appears as an inspiring
source of fantasy and vision,
Like the magnificent Northern lights
displaying kaleidoscopic draperies
in the polar nights,
Like the spectacular rainbow burst
after an intense shower,
Like a shooting star,
Like a blessed apparition.
I take her gently, gratefully,
in an ethereal embrace,
As you would take
honey from a beehive!
(*The Muse of lyric and love poetry-
one of nine Greek goddesses)
"It's all about the Moon" contest by SKAT A
Oh Freida who is fingering your shroud?
I can hear you coming, crossing the
old mansion’s tower and can see your
dark braided hair with feathers,
your perfume drifting past and
settling on uncut flowers.
But before I embrace your form,
I want to see with eyes full of flint
the draperies and naked bodies
in perpetual chiaroscuro.
Flirting with your pigments, I want
to dab violet on the face of mist,
gore sorrow with a riot of crimson-scarlet
and fling viridian on the face of earth to
be fresh again. Believe me I do not care
how you handle your brush or
whether unknown empires rise in your canvas
or knights and plebeians cross swords on
deserted beach.
I just want your blushing glow and
whisk the Dark Angel into first light.
I am my block. I am the neighbors. I am the stoops. I am the steps.
I am the concrete. I am the windows. I am the roofs. I am my block.
Her mantra kept going well into the night.
I am my block.
I am the Rutherfords.
I am the McDowells.
I am the Hardings.
I am my block. I am the weeds. I am the flowers. I am the mailboxes
I am the tv sets, I am the draperies, I am the door knobs.
I had nothing to add or edit, so I kept silent as her mantra continued.
I am my block. I am the porches. I am the railings. I am the cars.
I am the pigeons. I am the dogs. I am the cats. I am my block.
Turtles drooping can be signs of elitist tantrums on borderline wave cones. Such colours. And often feedback is not fodder so therefore indigestible. Taming a 3foot bullock who is battling to grow horns is often not an easy task. Sometimes content to chew cud and at other times rampaging and knocking over thistle glasses who often look quite shocked. If one resembles an otter can one dive? Flotation is the way of saying get up. And getting up is often fantastically fun terminology that means that the years have created an engagement long overdue. No exact ritual can perform an exact result so play light, put right, and glide on harmonics in air. Or over tables. Onlookers are quite often seasick. Oh how rather remarkable then for therein lies much Flightly kingdoms of rain and wind gods. 190th element and a half turn of a key. Let it not be said that a sausage can not jet ski and a mouse in a tutu cannot balance on a promenade in a wind. Wild wind whipping willows. A 1foot humanoid said pied a puskin skot in a bright patterned blouse. And ba said the eastern maiden. Longitudinal latitudes create attitudes to store in neat ordered patterns. On skylines in sky castle yards and gates are often discovering a new way of laughing. Draping a cotton snood to correct ways. Standing on a 5 centimetre bridge on mountains over 500 feet. Tailoring a suit and fixing a boot with the flem from a laughing hedgehog. Dusk discovered discourse discounted draperies driving drinking derived design divine divided *** canopies *** resistance *** ha ha ha ha *** now attempt to land in orderly ways. *** valour *** ape eel pies ***
When You Really Discern…
‘Why The Drama?’ Pattern
and Pending-Adoration,
Pertains-Peroration
When You Perceive…
Who Demands and Why?... Proceed…
… to Ply and Pry to Ascertain…
’ He Deserves This Portion-Acclaim’
and Drumming-Heart, Soulful-Desire…
and Defer-Strength to Dry-Pyre
and Humble-Pie, Donated-Data –
in Your Plea-Bargain-Brain- Por-Nada
Disperse the Diaspora
Prefer Real-Deal and Retain Prerogative-Honor
To, The Divine and Peerless…
Person of God – of Pure-Spirits
… Whose Personage Positively…
Remains Due-Homage and Dignity
…The Pinnacle…
Of The Direct-Pact - Empirical
Drawn and Done,
with His Precious DayStar-Son,
Who Deigned to Come
by The Father’s Decree…
Was Dispatched with Poise-Prudently
as Probe and Provision…
for Our Poverty and Pleurisy-Drain-Derision
He is The Pivot-Portrayal of Royal…
and Portal-To-Pace-Immortal
This Diadem-Prince-Progeny…
of Dazzling Famed-Piety and Propriety!
The Possessor and Presenter
and The Permission-for-us-to Speak and Palace-Enter
The Premium-Derivative-Son,
This Potentate Happy One...
Proof-Explained and Patent-Won
Delving Mysteries; Described Memories;
Drawing Forth Miracle-Draperies
and In Deference…
As A Pro-Dative – Proconsul-Presence…
He Maintains Preference
and Displays: That, The Dynamic-Will…
and Determined-Purpose Still,
Definitely, is Top-Priority…
One… and The Preeminent-Same… Pardon-Plea
He Is The Presiding – Deciding-Door-Key…
Precisely! - Praise-Accordingly!
For We Are Wind-Swept, Droves of Dust…
Dirt and Air-Gusts,
Now, Plundered-Seeds… Still-Planted…
Packed to Earth, Properly-Contained and Patted
if We Continue to Divide…
Disfigure, Pilfer and Hide
From SonShine, then in Dirty-Prairie…
We’ll be Permanent-Lain- and Perjury
If ‘We Choose’ to Develop…
Too Low-Down, to Peel-Hope
or Plow-Perverted…
The Preview, We’ll Not Regain…(We Deserted!)
Its Our Duty and Delight…
to Reach Dawn-Heights
and Par-Policy: Dump Rotted Produce…
and Pitch-Pit-Grain- Pro-Ruse
I always felt safe while
tangled in sheets till dawn
as I'd looked at your smile,
draperies tightly drawn.
Idyllic reveries
of fragmentary memories
painfully pierce my soul through;
melting away without you.
4/5/2019
Poetry Contest :Writing Challenge 1- April, 2019 - Its All About 8 -
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
abab ccdd
6. Night of Memories
Tulip turning. 1 2 3. Prettily pasting post in a tree. Shapeless orbs ornately decorated. And a singing bowl asleep near a fridge freezer. Radio not a field mouse. Declaration airwaves. A mothball flu. Power pointing pontifical pontiff. Plea to a pea. And a glass human being. Benign is a compass. Grateful is a directional flirt. Gravitationally given going grabbing giblets graciously. Take no wheel to an honourable friend. Especially a right honourable one. Left turn right turn middle middle break. Traffic light dancer. Its best to wear a gold bead rather than a decade of silverware on ones hand. Doesn't one agree? Hahahaha daring playsuit with plunging neckline hahahaha a little bug smiling and smoking. Hahahaha draperies. Xxxx daboya z
A little bit broken
Mostly bruised
Partly shattered
Mainly used
No more silhouettes dancing
The shadows are lose
The truth keeps expanding
Soon you’ll cut me loose
Soot stained stories
Darkened pilgrim muse
Aged window draperies
Sunlight scars me like tattoos
I’m coding
Don’t resuscitate
Verging on self imploding
Confine me to a crate
Try to hold me down
But I’m going run wild
You got that sweat stained frown
Muddled like we reconciled
Lack there of
I’m trained at solace
The indulgence in drought
Might as well be lawless
Requisition like a grifter
Longing for euphoric
Yet I content to self-gratify
As much a deed as a string tie
My mind whistles
Through the grated cage I built myself
I mazed myself from escaping
Now just another hollow doll on the shelf